


Wrap your roots all around my bones

by sundialsandsmiles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Gen, Post Season 2, polis fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5762674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundialsandsmiles/pseuds/sundialsandsmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke is not doing well on her own. A grounder named Luis takes pity on her and leads her to Polis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bury my heart underneath these trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm aware that this entire story is probably going to be nothing like the new season when it premiers, but it's an idea I've been playing around with for a while now, so I'm going to write it anyway. Both the story and chapter title are from "I will never die" by Delta Rae.

A week into her self imposed exile, Clarke stops at a river.

She doesn’t know _which_ river; she left Camp Jaha with no destination in mind. All her energy has been spent putting as much distance between herself and her home as she can. After a day, she began to worry that she might not find her way back. Two days later, she stopped caring if she ever did. Now when she looks around, nothing is familiar. She can almost forget what she’s running away from if she doesn't think too hard.

The river is wide but calm. Some part of her recognizes the opportunity to refill the canteen, but it is the sound of running water that really makes her stop. It drifts into her ears and trickles down her neck to where tension has pooled in her chest until the pressure seems to ease for the first time in _weeks._

She takes off her boots and leaves her backpack on the bank as she skips across the shallows. Cold water swirls through her toes and splashes up to her knees. Tiny droplets cling to her skin as they trail down her legs. A few feet in - where the water is just above her ankles - she stops, then opens her mouth to suck in a breath that turns ragged half way to her lungs. 

Clarke turns, clenching her jaw against the knot in her throat, and stumbles over to a large rock that sticks out from the riverbank. The surface is smooth beneath her palms, but solid and painful where she knocks her knees against it. She sits with her head in her hands and takes heavy, uneven breaths, her lungs trembling with the effort not to fall apart. She reaches up to swipe her palms across her eyes, but the effort is useless: her face is already slicked with tears that aren't going to stop anytime soon.

All she can think of is the massacre she wrought over Mount Weather, and the guilt tears through her body with every sob. She cries for every soul that she has left for dead in her wake, and she cries until she has no energy left to cry any more. After that she just watches the water ripple in silence. It is close to an hour before she does anything else. The tears have dried and left her skin salty and drawn, so she leans down and splashes water on her face.

At the edge of her senses, Clarke hears the scuff of boots against stone, and her hand goes to the grip of her pistol as she turns toward the sound. Blinking the haze out of her eyes, she scans the opposite riverbank, but there is nothing to see.

“Who’s there?” she calls out. There is no response. Clarke decides she would rather not wait around to find out, so she jumps to her feet and holsters the weapon. She keeps her eyes on the trees as she pulls on her boots and slings the backpack over her shoulders. Then, gun in hand, she returns to the cover of the forest.

She doesn’t stop until the sun begins to tuck itself behind the horizon two hours later. She is exhausted and dehydrated, almost enough to stop worrying about who might have followed her. She hasn’t seen or heard any signs of pursuit. Anyone stealthy enough to follow her undetected would have found a way to kill or capture her by now, she figures. Nonetheless, she keeps the gun handy. 

Clarke fills her canteen and then finds a recess along the southern face of a rocky hillside. It is not deep, but it will at least break the cold wind that has been rolling in from the north. She huddles against the wall under a thin space blanket that doesn't quite keep the cold at bay.

Most of the night is not spent sleeping. She’s exhausted, because she always is, but she can’t turn her mind off. At first it’s just all the thoughts in her head - guilt bleeding into anger sinking into despair - but as the dissonance of her emotions fade, night sounds drift in to replace them. A thread of paranoia floats to the surface, and she spends long stretches of time straining her eyes against the darkness. Fear creeps up her spine with every hoot and howl, every whistle and crack.

Clarke only manages to catch a couple hours of sleep between all the tension and anxiety, so it’s a welcome sight when the sun begins to rise and cast light into the shadows. As soon as it is bright enough to see, she snaps a low hanging branch from a tree and carves it into a spear. Then she wastes the rest of the morning trying to kill things with it. She considers wasting a bullet instead, but she has yet to see anything that seems worth it. She is not out of food yet. It can wait.

On the way back to her camp, she finds a tree that still has berries on it. She plucks one and bites into it experimentally. It tastes a little bitter, but otherwise edible, so she collects the rest of them for later. She spends the next days surviving on these and other things that don’t run away.

This is the longest she has stayed in one place since she left, and so far she has no inclination to leave. Whatever force was driving her away from her home seems to have faded with distance. In any case, she feels far too drained to make any effort to move at this point. At night she is still too agitated to sleep, and during the day, the lack of sleep makes it increasingly hard to function. She gets distracted, and half of the things she starts are only finished hours later, if at all. She dozes off in the middle of things, and wakes disoriented and panicked.

A couple of days later, near dusk, Clarke finds herself drifting off again. She doesn't know for how long, but she wakes to the smell of burning wood and cooking meat. A fire crackles in the night, tended by the silhouette of a man kneeling next to it. His back is turned, and Clarke reaches for her pistol, only to find it missing.

Adrenaline kicks in and lends her all the stealth she has been missing for the past few days. She pulls out the knife she has taken to keeping tucked into her boot - she counts herself very lucky that it's still there. Before the man even seems to notice that she's awake, she is right behind him, with her knee pressed into his back and the knife at his throat.

“Drop the gun,” she demands, because she knows he must have taken it. Her voice sounds almost as ragged as she feels, but her hand is firm and steady with the knife. He raises his hands up to where she can see them, and turns his head as far as he dares.

“I mean you no ha-”

“ _Now_ ,” she hisses, cutting him off.

“It is there,” he says, nodding his head at a large messenger bag next to a tree, well out of their reach. The flap is open, and she can see the fletchings of a bundle of arrows peeking out of one side. Clarke can’t spot the gun from where she is, so she reaches down to check his clothes, searching for weapons.

It’s only a moment of distraction, but the man takes advantage of it. His hand flies up and his fingers catch on her wrist, creating enough space for him to duck under her arm. Both of them tip off balance for a moment, but he manages to escape without stumbling into the fire. Clarke still has the knife, which she brandishes in front of her in a white knuckled fist. He steps between her and the bag, then holds his hands up in surrender again.

“ _Oyei,_ I’ve not come here to fight you, Clarke of the Sky People.” She falters for a moment. His voice is soft, and Clarke can’t help noticing the way it flows, accented in a subtle way unlike most of the grounders she has met. It takes her a moment to shake the distraction and catch up with the words. When she does, it makes her heart feel heavy. She doesn’t like it. The title. It conjures up too many painful memories too soon. She doesn’t feel like a Sky Person anymore. Not after what she did.

“What do you want?” she asks finally. He just watches her for a moment, considering his words.

“You are not doing well,” he says, and she knows he’s right. At the rate she’s going, she won’t survive once winter really sets in. She hasn’t collected enough food, and she’s already freezing her ass off at night. She wonders if he's been watching her this whole time. “Let me help you. There is a city half a day’s walk from here.”

Clarke says nothing, but she is weighing her options. Lexa may have broken the alliance, but that may not mean that their people are enemies again. If she had stayed with hers, she might know for sure, and she wonders, not for the first time, if her decision to leave was too reckless. She shakes the thought before it can take root. Now is not the time for introspection. She lowers the knife slowly, but does not put it away.

“Please, I know you must be hungry,” the man says. He gestures to the fire, where what looks like a small rabbit is roasting. Now that the adrenaline has started to wear off, the smell is starting to affect her. Her stomach picks that moment to growl at her, and the man takes an experimental step closer. Clarke watches him carefully, but doesn't move.

“I want my gun back.”

He stops, drops his hands to his sides, and frowns at her. “I do not mean to distrust you, Clarke of the Sky People, but I do not wish to be shot in the back,” he says cautiously.

“Don't call me that.”

There is a pause and he blinks. “Sorry?”

“Just Clarke,” she clarifies, then after a second, “Please.” It's an afterthought and it sounds exactly like one, awkward and not quite sincere.

He chuckles. “Very well.” There's a pause and he adds, “Clarke,” in almost exactly the same tone of afterthought. There’s a smirk on his face, and she wonders for a moment if she's being mocked.

“My name is Luis.” His tone is kind again. She doesn't respond to the introduction, but she does finally lean down to tuck the knife back into her boot. “Nice to meet you too,” he says, and this time she's sure she's being mocked, but it doesn't feel mean-spirited, so she lets it go.

“I'm willing to unload it,” she tries again, gesturing to the bag. Luis watches her silently for a few seconds. Finally, he nods, then steps aside.

She walks over to find the gun without taking her eyes off him, and he watches her pointedly as she slides the bullets out of the magazine. Once it's empty, he turns back to the fire while she scoops the bullets into a pouch on her backpack. She pulls the slide back but pauses before it releases the last bullet. She glances up at Luis again to make sure that he's well distracted before she lets go, leaving the bullet in the chamber.

The rabbit is hot and tender, and it may be the best thing Clarke has tasted in months - far better than the bitter berries or the tough strips of smoked venison she has been eating for the past couple of weeks - but she doesn’t let it show. She isn’t going to let him think that he’s starting to gain her favor, because he’s not. It will probably be a long time before she is willing to just trust a grounder, even one who shares his food with her. Whenever the other shoe may fall, she won’t be blindsided by it. Not this time.

“You should sleep,” Luis says after they’ve eaten their fill, and the fire lies dying in coals. “I will keep watch.”

“I don’t think so.”

Luis lifts his head. He doesn’t look surprised by the hostility in her voice, but he does look a little exasperated. He closes his eyes for a moment, then glances away from her with a sigh.

“Suit yourself,” he says, then gets up to retrieve a roll of furs from his bag. He lays it out on the ground, next to the fire pit, then lies down and pulls one of them over his shoulder. Clarke can’t keep the glint of envy from her eyes. The furs look so soft; and much warmer than the space blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

The glow of the coals begins to fade, and before long, there is nothing but the light of a crescent moon to see by. And yet, for the first time in several nights, Clarke feels at ease. Even with a stranger in her camp. There is no grip of anxiety restricting the air in her chest. She relaxes into the nocturnal sounds of the forest.

The night stretches on, and Clarke must have fallen asleep, because she opens her eyes and the sky is bright behind the trees. One of Luis’s furs is draped over her and warmth seems to have finally found its way back into her fingers and toes. She is not well rested, because it will take more than a few hours on a forest floor to rid her of exhaustion, but she feels better than she has in a while.

Luis is not there. She doesn’t like not knowing where he is, but her gun still rests at her side, and she spots his bow on the other side of the fire pit. She doesn’t feel particularly inclined to worry about his absence at the moment.

Clarke’s knees ache from being bent so long, and her bones creak as she stumbles to her feet. She lets the blankets fall, and it's cold, but the few seconds she takes to stretch her limbs are worth it. She slings the fur over her shoulders again, then kneels to fold up the space blanket. The rest of Luis’s furs have already been put away, so Clarke packs up the few things she's left scattered around the camp: a flashlight, her canteen, and the space blanket, of course. The pistol, as always, stays by her side.

When Luis returns, he finds Clarke sitting cross legged, huddled into the warmth of the fur. “We should leave soon,” he says. “I let you sleep for too long, and there is much ground to cover.” She frowns at him, and makes no move to get up. She has only just managed to seal out all the cold air, and now she's reluctant to move and invite it back in.

Clarke takes a moment to study him, now that she has the opportunity to see him in the daylight. His skin is dark like copper, and relatively unmarked by life or battle, but he has ink: a patch of vines that wind around the side of his neck and disappear under his collar. His hair is dark, short and thick, and he has maybe a week’s worth of scruff on his face, but he looks about her age, maybe a few years older. His frame is lean, and he looks strong and agile. Clarke thinks of the archers hiding in trees the first time she met Anya. It bothers her that she never even thought to look up. He could have been watching her from the trees this whole time.

“You should eat something before we go,” Luis says, holding a handful of berries out to her. She meets his eyes, and even though he has raised an impatient eyebrow at her, they are kind. She stands and takes the berries, but waits for him to toss back the ones in his other hand before following suit. They are sweeter than the ones she's been eating, and she makes a note of what they look like for future reference.

As they make their way through the woods, Luis walks in front. Mostly because Clarke needs him to lead the way, but also because she still isn’t willing to turn her back on him. She is starting to come around though. She recognizes that he has been very trusting, leaving his guard down with her, and that is a point in his favor. A few hours into their journey, the ground begins to slope upwards, and after twenty minutes, Clarke is breathing hard. The hike goes up and down over rocky terrain, but they only stop twice to rest and finish off the rabbit meat from the night before.

The sun rests low in the sky when Clarke spots a fence through the trees: a patchwork of metal, wood and stone. Beyond it, there are buildings, and as they approach, Clarke realizes that there are a lot of them. They spend another ten minutes walking through the forest, and then it just… ends. A thirty foot gap between the wall and the edge of the trees stretches miles in either direction, and all Clarke can see in front of her is city.

And then something clicks. The echo of Lexa’s words drift into her mind: _You should come with me to the Capitol._ Clarke stops and swallows, twice, but her throat still feels tight. Luis turns and gives her a look of concern, but she just shakes her head. “I-it’s nothing,” she says, unable to keep the waver out of her voice. She takes a moment to breathe. “Let’s go.”

There are guards posted at the gate, and though they offer no resistance, Clarke can feel their eyes linger on her. She wonders if they recognize her like Luis did. Do they know what happened at the mountain after their commander left her and her people there to die? Do they know what she did to survive? 

Clarke breathes out harshly and then hurries through the gate. She steps ahead of Luis for a moment to get away from those curious eyes.

Just inside the gate lies a cluster of tents along the edge of a wide open space. As Luis leads her toward the far side of the lot, Clarke examines a darkened patch of dirt, and with a start, she realizes what the space must be: an arena. It’s empty at the moment, but the blood on the ground looks fresh, no more than a few hours old. She follows Luis into the largest tent at the end, which turns out to be an armory. Rows of swords and knifes line the walls. Luis places a dagger on one of the tables and hangs his bow and quiver on a rack with many others.

“You must leave your weapons here,” he says, turning to her. There is an uncomfortable silence that lasts a few seconds.

“What?” Clarke asks, because she can’t think of anything else to say.

“No weapons are allowed past this point,” Luis replies. Clarke just stares at him for a few seconds, hoping he might change his mind, but his expression remains impassive.

Finally, she gives in with a sigh, and places her gun on the table in front of her. She pulls the fist full of bullets out of her backpack, and Luis hands her a little pouch to store them in. Finally she reaches for the gun, and pulls back the slide. The last bullet pops out and rolls onto the table. She meets his eyes with a contrite look as she drops it into the pouch with the rest of them. Again, he looks disappointed, but not particularly surprised.

“Sorry,” she says and fidgets with the drawstring on the bag. She doesn’t think there’s anything else she can say.

He lets a breath out and says gruffly, “Apology accepted.” He doesn’t forgive her, which is okay, because she doesn’t suppose that this is something you offer forgiveness for. She probably wouldn’t if their positions were reversed. Luis locks the gun and ammunition in a chest in the corner of the room, and Clarke slings her bag back over her shoulders. She turns to leave, but Luis holds an arm out to bar her path.

“The knife too.” Clarke doesn’t say anything, just kneels to retrieve the blade from her boot and hands it to him. On a gesture of good faith, she pulls her backpack around to dig a multitool pocket knife out of one of the pouches. He studies it for a moment, flips out a few of the tools, and then the blade. He tests its edge - which Clarke knows isn’t particularly sharp anymore - with the pad of his thumb and then hands it back to her.

“This one is small enough. You may keep it,” he tells her.

They leave the tent, and approach another gate and another set of guards. There is a quick exchange of words in _Trigedasleng_ between Luis and one of them. The only thing she catches is _Klark kom Skaikru_. The words sound foreign to her ears, but the knowledge of their meaning still makes her frown. It seems to take a bit of convincing, but the guards back down and let them pass. Clarke assumes that Luis just talked them out of searching her, so as the guards open the gates for them, she moves to his side and whispers a quiet thanks. He gives her a soft smile and just nods in return.

On the other side, Clarke gets her first proper glimpse of the city. It looks nothing like the village of Ton DC - or at least what she saw of it before the missile destroyed it, Clarke acknowledges grimly. Many of the structures here look like they are from the time before the Nuclear War. They are weathered and patched up where nature has taken a toll, but they look clean and well cared for. They give the city a very different feel than what she expected. 

Clarke only realizes that she stopped walking when Luis steps up to her side with a wide smile on his face. His words tell her something she already knows. “Welcome to Polis.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Oyei - Listen  
> Klark kom Skaikru - Clarke of the Sky People


	2. Walking me across a fragile line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luis takes Clarke to explore the streets of Polis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Hold me down" by Halsey.

Clarke walks at Luis’s side, half a step behind him, but only so that he may continue to lead the way. At first no one pays them any mind, but as they move deeper into the city, heads are turning and recognition shines on their faces. A quiet excitement buzzes in the air and all of the sudden, Clarke is immensely uncomfortable. She had no idea that her face would be so well known in the grounder capitol. So far no one has approached them, but even yards away, the attention makes her skin prickle. She clenches her hands and ragged fingernails dig into her palms.

They pass through a marketplace, still bustling with activity despite the fading daylight. Most of the vendors look to be closing shop for the evening though: packing away their wares, sealing up their stores and tents, dealing curtly with any last customers. Clarke imagines that these streets must be packed during the day and she is grateful for the fact of their late arrival. They navigate through thin crowds and emerge on the other end of the street into a large city square. For the first time since she has been on the ground, Clarke hears music. A woman stands with an instrument resting on her hip. Her fingers dance across the strings, picking out a delicate but lively tune. Beside her, a little boy with a flute plays a sprightly melody to match.

They look like they must be related, perhaps a mother and son, and without warning, Clarke’s heart begins to ache. Her own mother’s face pops into her head. She wants to see her again, but at the same time, she feels sick at the thought. She misses all of her people, but she can’t think about them without being reminded of what she did to save them. She spends the next several blocks brooding about it, before she shakes her head, arresting her train of thought. The weight of her crimes is a crushing force, but she chooses to focus on the world around her instead of stewing in her guilt.

They are in a quieter neighborhood now, outside of the main part of the city. There are still some shops here and there with people milling about, but the blocks aren’t as dense as they were on the streets they walked before. Clarke peers up the lane and spots a large building set off from those around it. The architecture looks even older than the rest of the pre-war buildings in the city: all pillars and intricate designs carved into weathered stone. It looks important, and the second this thought strikes her, Clarke’s feet stop like they’ve been weighted down with lead.

“Wh- what is - where are you taking me?” she sputters. Luis seems to have picked up on the alarm in her tone immediately, and he gives her a cautious look.

“This is the capitol building,” he says carefully, telling her something she had already begun to figure out. She doesn’t find the confirmation comforting. “You will be safe here, Clarke,” he says, making a guess at what has given her pause, but he gets it wrong, because at the moment, personal safety is hardly a concern for her.

“I don’t want to go in there,” she insists, speaking quickly, like she needs to get the words out before she chokes on them.

“Where else should you go?” he asks, getting annoyed with her again. “Clarke, you will be a guest of honor-”

“I don’t _want to be_ a guest of honor!” she hisses loudly, drawing the attention of some people passing them by. Clarke shrinks at the feeling of their eyes on her and takes a moment to calm herself. Luis keeps quiet after the outburst and just studies her as she tries to catch her breath.

“She isn’t here, Clarke.”

They both know who _she_ is, and this time, he’s got it all right. Clarke opens her mouth to say something, but she cannot form the words. Instead she lets out a heavy breath that quivers deep inside her chest. She wants to deny that she cares, but the relief she feels is so tangible that it’s actually embarrassing.

Luis places his arm across her shoulders gingerly, and Clarke allows herself to be lead up to the capitol building. The doors open to a foyer made of polished stone. It has seen better days. The finish is well worn on the floor, sections of wall are cracked, and the railing of a stairwell is missing large chunks of stone. However, the imperfections give it character, Clarke thinks.

A hallway leads off from the left side of the room, and they follow it. Long strips of fabric hang from the walls, and Clarke passes several of them before she realizes that they are meant to be art. She sees abstract swirls of warm, earthy colors that create delicate textures. Many of them have black and brown stitch work that reminds her of the designs she has seen in grounder tattoos. One of these catches her eye, and she has to stare at it for a few seconds before she realizes why it peaks her curiosity over the others.

“Is that… writing?” she asks, a hint of wonder in her voice. Luis turns with a sharp look.

“You sound surprised,” he says dryly, and raises an eyebrow at her.

Color floods into Clarke’s cheeks and her eyes widen. “I didn’t mean - that wasn’t -” She cuts herself off with a sharp inhale. She closes her eyes to allow her thoughts catch up with her. When she opens them again, Clarke looks up at Luis and offers an apology. “I’m sorry. That sounded bad, and I shouldn’t have said it like that.” He holds her gaze silently for a second, and then gives her a nod.

“So, um,” Clarke says, glancing back at the writing. It looks like they use the same alphabet, she notices this time. The letters are just so stylized that she didn’t recognize them at first. “What does it say?”

A smirk forms on Luis’s lips, then he steps up to the wall and reads aloud from the cloth, in _Trigedasleng_. Once he finishes, Clarke waits for a translation, but Luis appears to be done talking.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” she says, and laughs in spite of herself.

“Learn our language and you might not need me to,” he says, still smirking.

“Fair enough.” She gives him a smile then. He may be only teasing her, but she decides to take the suggestion to heart. If not out of necessity, then out of respect. She thinks he has earned it at this point.

They move on and Luis shows her to a room. With nothing but the living quarters and a cell on the Ark for comparison, it feels large to Clarke. There are a pair of windows on the far wall with thin red curtains that are half drawn, letting the last of the late afternoon sun spill into the room.

“I will be back soon,” Luis says, and disappears through the door. Clarke sets her backpack on the floor and sits down on the bed, running her hands over the soft furs piled on top of it. She lies back and closes her eyes, turning her head to press her cheek into the fur. The bed is quite comfortable, and Clarke just lies there, listening to the sound of her breathing. Just as she is on the verge of drifting off to sleep, there is a knock at the door. Luis stands at the threshold, with a set of clean clothes in his arms.

“A bath has been made for you,” he says. “Come. While the water is still hot.” Clarke’s eyes light up at that, and she springs to her feet, feeling energized. She follows him down the hall, where he stops in front of a door and hands her the bundle of clothes.

“You should find everything you need in there,” he tells her. “I will come back later with food.” Clarke nods at him, and pushes the door open as he walks away. The room is small and warm, with a tiled floor. There is a mirror with a long crack across its surface set into one of the walls. On the far side of the room there is curtain half concealing a tub of water. Clarke sets her clothes next to a stack of towels on a shelf and dips her hand in it. The water is warm, just as Luis promised, so she strips off her dirty clothes and steps into the tub.

The tension in her muscles begins to dissolve as soon as she lowers her body into the water, and it feels amazing. For a minute, she just sits there with her eyes closed, allowing herself to relax and soak up the heat. Then she leans forward to explore the soaps and vials sitting on another shelf next to the tub. She picks an oil with soft floral notes over a warm, woodsy base, and goes to work on her hair, and then the rest of her body.

Only once the water begins to chill does Clarke pull the plug and step out of the tub. Her feet leave trails of water on the floor as she walks over to grab a towel. When she’s dry, she picks up a piece of clothing, and lets it unfold. It’s a dress. She slips it over her head and takes a look at herself in the mirror. It is fairly plain - just black, knee-length and sleeveless - but it looks good on her. The fabric is soft, but thick, and it clings to her curves.

She wraps her hair up in the towel and takes a look at the rest of the clothes Luis brought her. There’s a grey jacket lined with fur, a pair of knit stockings, and some underwear, which she slips on under the dress. She picks up the jacket and slides her arms into it, then takes another look in the mirror. She looks different in these clothes. Not that she is unrecognizable by any stretch, but it makes her feel lighter. It is too warm inside for the jacket, so she slips it off again and returns to her room. For lack of a better place to put them, she tosses her dirty clothes in a corner. She will need to ask Luis where she can go to wash them tomorrow.

The room is dark now that the sun is almost gone, and Clarke remembers a collection of candles sitting on a desk on the other side of the room. She goes over to it and shuffles through the drawers, and at the bottom of one of them, she finds a box of matches. She uses one to light two candles, then lies down on the bed again. Another ten minutes pass before Luis returns with a plate of food. He hands it to her and turns to leave, but Clarke calls out to him.

“Luis…” He stops and she looks up to meet his eyes. “Will you stay?” Her voice sounds shaky and vulnerable. He nods at her, then sits down at the end of the bed and leans against the wall while she eats. He doesn’t say much, which is fine. She doesn’t need him to make small talk, she just needs the company. She hadn’t considered loneliness a problem until he showed up, and now she doesn’t want him to leave.

When she is finished, he takes her plate, but doesn’t get up to leave, and she doesn’t ask him to as she curls into the fur and pillows. Luis stays perched at the foot of the bed, a soothing presence that helps to ease the worries that plague her mind. It takes less than a minute for exhaustion to catch up with her, and Clarke falls asleep. 

Nightmares only wake her once that night. The room is dark and empty when she bolts upright in her bed. There is sweat on her brow and her throat is dry, so she digs the canteen out of her bag and drains a third of it. The images in her dreams always torment her long after she wakes, and this one is no different, filling her head with the faces of everyone she has ever let down. Clarke spends half an hour pacing the room in tears before she feels calm enough to lie down again.

The rest of the night, she sleeps soundly, and she wakes early the next morning. Bright autumn sunlight shines through the window, and Clarke throws off the covers and clambers out of the bed almost immediately. By the time Luis comes around to check on her, she is already slipping out of the capitol building. She runs into him on the steps outside the entrance.

“Clarke,” he says, blinking his eyes at her. “Where are you going?” He sounds disappointed, and Clarke struggles to come up with an answer. All she has is this vague unease about being in Lexa’s capitol building that sits deep in her chest, compelling her to leave. Standing here - right out in front for all the world to see - it makes her feel exposed and vulnerable. She wants to put herself far away from here, but Luis is standing in her way.

“Into the city,” she finally says. The explanation comes several seconds too late and it doesn't sound as casual as she’d like, but there’s nothing for it. Saying more won’t clear the suspicion lurking in Luis’s eyes. Another few moments pass in silence as he studies her.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, and Clarke lets out the breath she was holding, because that’s a question she can deal with.

“I haven’t.” Her voice is remarkably light for all the tension she’s holding, still anxious to get off these steps and disappear into the city. She is fine with getting food, as long as she doesn’t have to consume it here.

“How do you feel about pastries?” he asks. Clarke waits for elaboration before she answers. “I know a place in the markets, if you would-”

“Yes.” Clarke had stopped listening after ‘markets’ and Luis is further perplexed when she sidesteps him and bounds down the rest of the steps. She stops when she reaches the landing and gives him an impatient look, placing one hand on her hip. “Come on, then. What’s the holdup?”

They go back to the square and turn down a new street. Clarke feels eyes on her again as they walk, but it is still early. Most of them are shopkeepers, still too busy preparing for the day to bother them, much like the night before. At the end of a block, they step into a sunny bakery. A bell jingles as Luis pushes the door open and the young woman behind the counter looks up to greet them.

“ _Luis, os sonop!_ ” she says, smiling. She looks to Clarke, eyes lingering a moment before she asks, “ _En chon dison bilaik?_ ” Clarke blinks like a deer in the headlights until Luis puts a hand on her shoulder and speaks for her.

“ _Em laik Klark kom Skaikru_ ,” he says, and Clarke bristles at the title again, and at the reverence now present in the woman’s expression. “Clarke, this is Paige.”

Paige bows her head, and then forms a halting sentence, “It is honor.” She doesn’t seem comfortable with the language, a suspicion which is confirmed when Luis steps up to the counter and they continue in _Trigedasleng_. Clarke moves away from the door, but keeps her distance, happy for the excuse not to communicate.

She can't understand most of what they are saying, but it sounds like they are discussing more than just a pastry order. Paige is very animated when she speaks to Luis. Her hands wave back and forth with her words, and she is beaming at him with a light flush of color in her cheeks. Luis on the other hand, seems much more collected. He has a pleasant look on his face, and he gives a nod of acknowledgement here and there, but he doesn't say much. After a minute or so, Paige seems to run short on small talk, and after a few final words, she disappears into a back room. Luis backs away from the counter to join Clarke near the door, his eyes cast to the floor.

“She seems nice,” Clarke says, a smirk tugging at her lips. Luis closes his eyes and then glances up at her, but doesn't respond, because a second later Paige returns. She steps around the counter with a small bag of what must be pastries. One hand comes to rest on Luis’s arm as she holds the bag out to him in the other.

“ _Mochof_ ,” he says, taking the bag with a polite nod.

“ _Eni taim, Luis._ ”

They leave the shop and Luis pulls two croissants out of the bag and hands one to Clarke. It smells wonderful, and when she bites into it, it is warm and crispy and - “ _Oh_ …” - there’s chocolate on the inside.

Luis lets out a laugh beside her. “You need me to leave you alone with that?”

“Shut up,” she says with a blush, mortified at the sound she just made. “This is amazing.”

“I’m sure Paige would be happy to hear that,” Luis remarks.

“Which part?” Clarke asks, grinning facetiously.

“Clarke...” Luis groans, rolling his eyes at her, and she laughs.

They spend the rest of the morning wandering the markets, and as the sun climbs higher in the sky, more and more people fill the streets. It isn’t long before someone recognizes her again. An old man approaches them with his eyes on Clarke.

“ _Skaiheda_ ,” he says, and reaches out to take one of her hands in his own. She twitches at the contact, but resists the urge to yank her arm away. “I think I speak for all when I say that I celebrate the end of the mountain. You stepped into a war that has lasted decades and ended it with a finality that we could never achieve. It is a great honor to stand in your presence.”

Clarke is quiet. She doesn’t know how to respond, so she just stands there, letting the words sink in. Another grounder walks up to them to echo the old man’s sentiment, and then another, and suddenly, Clarke is surrounded. Whispers of _Klark kom Skaikru_ flit through the crowd, and a wave of chatter in both languages washes over her. It’s overwhelming, but so far, she is doing okay, adjusting to the attention easier than she expected. After a minute, she even begins to relax, but just as she starts to unclench her jaw, a hostile voice breaks through the buzz and shatters her fragile composure.

“You are unworthy of such praise, _skaigada_.” A burly blonde man much bigger than her pushes through the crowd, a flush of anger coloring his pale skin. “My father lies buried under the ruins of Ton DC, and you knew it was coming, didn’t you?” he continues, and Clarke feels like the blood in her veins has turned to ice.

“I did what had to be done,” she forces out through the tension in her throat. Her voice holds none of the confidence to back it up like it did when she stood up to Quint. The guilt welling in her stomach is crippling, and every second it gets harder to breath. She thinks she might be sick. The man takes another step towards Clarke, but Luis moves forward, placing himself between them like a shield.

“ _Chil yu daun, Akim,_ ” Luis says. His voice is harder and more dangerous than Clarke has ever heard it before. Akim glares down at him. He’s half a head taller than Luis, and has significantly more muscle packed onto his body.

“ _Haukom yu shil du op?_ ” Akim demands, raising his arm and gesturing at Clarke.

Luis doesn’t respond, and then Akim loses the last of his patience.

“ _Shov of, strik hef!_ ” He slaps an enormous hand on Luis’s shoulder and starts to push him aside to get at Clarke again, but Luis drops his stance and his palm strikes the other man’s chest. Akim stumbles back a few steps before he catches himself, and then he comes back with a fist. A yelp escapes from Clarke as it connects with Luis’s jaw, sending him off balance. Akim comes at her again, and Clarke starts to back up until she bumps into the crowd behind her, which quickly scatters. Akim grabs two fistfuls of the jacket she’s wearing and throws her like she weighs nothing. She skids to her knees several feet away and her elbows hit the ground hard.

When she looks up, Akim is stalking toward her with rage in his eyes, ready to kick his boot into her side, but before he can reach her, Luis in back in the fight. He tackles Akim to the ground and they trade punches for a few seconds, grappling for dominance, until finally, Luis manages to break away from Akim’s hold. He drops his elbow down hard on Akim’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. Luis jumps to his feet and backs away from Akim as he rolls onto his side, gasping for air. Once he’s sure the other man isn’t getting up to attack again, he looks for Clarke, eyes wide, and rushes to her side.

“We need to go,” he says, dragging her to her feet. “Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Os sonop - Good morning  
> En chon dison bilaik? - And who is this?  
> Em laik Klark kom Skaikru - She is Clarke of the Sky People  
> Mochof - Thank you  
> Eni taim - Any time  
> Skaiheda - Sky leader  
> Skaigada - Sky girl  
> Chil yu daun - Stand down  
> Haukom yu shil du op? - Why are you protecting her? (note: "du" is a pejorative form of "em")  
> Shov of, strik hef! - Out of my way, little man!


End file.
